


The Villager Account

by YogurtHoops



Category: Minecraft - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Meta, kind of?, minecraft from a villager's perspective, narrator makes an effort to be reliable, un-betaed, whether or not he succeeds is up to you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:27:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23085496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YogurtHoops/pseuds/YogurtHoops
Summary: "I have never believed in gods. Not with the way the world works."-A minecraft villager writes down his thoughts.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There's a distinct lack of gen fics that don't connect to youtubers in the minecraft tag.

The Villager Account.   
Plains, Librarian.  
X: 560  
Y: 65  
Z: -998

-000-

I struggle to find the words to start – keeping track of older tomes and journals has rid me of the skill of writing new ones, I suppose. But even so, despite the fact I do not expect this journal to become something of a priceless account of the past, experience informs me that any piece of writing has the potential of being useful to someone in the future. The numerous anthologies in my collection tells me so.

Perhaps an introduction will suffice as the first entry. 

I am the librarian of a village of seven. We reside in a plain surrounded by dark oak – arguably the best location our ancestors could have settled. It is… small, by certain standards: we have a few houses, a good amount of farms and workplaces, but again, it’s a village of seven. Many houses’ doors have not been opened in a long time and are expected to wither away in time.

The idea of this account was sparked my coworker, the cartographer, after a scare we had with a zombie raid a few cycles back. We had a long chat about mortality and, well, being forgotten. I am not embarrassed to say the concept of being lost to time terrifies me. I’m surrounded by clear evidence that all beings die someday with limited signs of their existence left over, after all. It’s easy to lapse into acceptance with the constant reminders. 

Needless to say, the conversation spooked me enough to consider writing one of my own books. Historic and purely intellectual, of course. Non-fiction. When I mentioned it, the cartographer gave me a strange look before questioning my ego. I believe the exact words he used were: “Are you really so full of yourself to think that your diary will be important enough for future generations to keep?” 

I chalked up his hostility to the stress of the zombie raid and lack of sleep, but he did have a point. So, this journal will not focus on me as an individual. I will only include the most accurate accounts of events and emotions that affect our village in weekly increments. As the librarian, it is my duty to do so. 

Let us begin.

-000-

Week One.

As previously stated, our village is of a modest size. There are a few tomes in my collection that tell of larger villages in different biomes, sometimes bordering on full-on towns with enough iron golems to protect them for centuries. 

I can only imagine the gossip that runs through communities as large as those, considering our measly population of seven has managed to get on my nerves with their jabber.

Gossip is a natural aspect of our kind, admittedly. I participate during the Bell Gathering just as everyone is guilty of doing so – although, I suspect I am one of the subjects of scrutiny as of late. The only one who deigns to talk to me in the afternoons now is the nitwit, and all he has to say are absurd tales about the sun and the stars.

“I stayed out after dark last night,” he said. “And the sky…”

“What about it?” I asked, only paying the minimum amount of attention needed for interactions such as this.

“It revolved around me,” He whispered, touched by a god. “And, I’d bet it revolves around you too. If you looked hard enough. All the stars were moving round and round…”

“How lucky we are to have your input on these things,” I replied, looking at the others a sizable distance away. I could see them glancing over before whispering to each other. 

I’d bet emeralds that they were not talking about farming techniques of the season. The cartographer must have mentioned the journal.

But, yes. We are a small village, but our social activities are healthy. Alongside myself there is the aforementioned cartographer, the nitwit, three farmers with varying levels of expertise, and an unemployed. We used to have another villager without a job, but no one has seen him since the zombie raid. I assume the worst, and I have doubts the others even care. 

I suppose that is the nature of our world now – looking out for yourself with only minimal empathy towards others. I’m not complaining. It’s a reasonable way of life, in times such as these.

Still, I do not look forward to the day when that unemployed returns with a slightly greener hue, bashing down my door. 

Speaking of greener hues, emerald circulation is slowly becoming arbitrary with our small population. The farmers have just accepted the idea that they’ll provide food for us, while we do our services for free. It’s a survival thing, more than anything.

We don’t have a surplus of supplies, only enough to live comfortably and get by just in case of a disaster. Our currencies have turned into pretty trinkets – nice to look at and decorate with, but worthless. At least for now. 

It’s boring, doing a job with no driving force. I know the cartographer is suffering quite a bit. He never did like his job, more interested in alchemy. Our ancestors never ventured enough to acquire a brewing stand, though. 

I enjoy my books, I really do. And now with my journal, it’s grown past personal motivation. Perhaps hope for the future? Motivation for educating future generations?

I’ll stay dutiful. It would be a shame to lose my mind to a lack of stimulation instead of losing it to a zombie, like most of us do.

-000-

Week Two.

When I started writing, I didn’t take into account how little actually occurs within the village boundaries. 

Villagers are very schedule oriented. Even when one is unemployed or unable to take a job, there’s a very specific list of tasks one has to carry out at specific times. The Bell Gathering, sleeping, the small window between waking up and going to do business – all of these have been specifically modified through the generations to guarantee survival. We wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for this structure we placed ourselves in. 

The amount of near-death experiences the nitwit has gone through in his idiotic, nightly excursions is evidence of that. 

You sleep at a certain time. You wake at a certain time. You socialize at a certain time. Or else you risk the death of yourself and others. It’s a duty, of some sort. Now that I think about it, our plains biome creates a perfect environment void of farming troubles or overbearing monsters as well. We live in an extremely controlled environment, almost. 

Unfortunately, that means nothing much happens worth writing down. In fact, the only things worth writing are the nitwit’s previously-mentioned idiotic, nightly excursions, which I refuse to catalogue. 

Although, I do admit the night does spark curiosity. After all, none of us really know the limits of the dark other than “dangerous” and “a bad idea”. What information the nitwit has returned with seems legitimate, other than when I can only assume are highly unreliable accounts of events. Describing the Men of Ender as “plum men” is ridiculous and, honestly, probably insulting.

The Men of Ender are… interesting.

They show up in multiple if not all the books in my collection, descriptions varying but very obviously depicting the tall, thin figures. Many of the accounts mention the theory for a penchant of technology and study, which I can respect. They are theories, though. Nothing solid. Other reasons for why they would collect worthless materials like dirt and sand escape me, however. 

To have the ability to teleport built into their anatomy… I can only imagine what sort of advancements they have made. Do they even have a community? I caught sight of one out of the corner of my eye one morning, teleporting every which way until disappearing over the horizon. They don’t seem like social creatures, but I could be wrong… 

I suppose having nothing of note to document has led to speculation. This is turning into more of a personal account than I originally intended.

-000-

Week Three.

The past week has brought some interesting visitors. 

Four days ago, one of our farmers spotted a blue-clad figure over a mountain in the distance. He relayed this to the rest of us during the Bell Gathering with enthusiasm, to which most of us were wary. The next day, the figure with his two beasts found his way into our village. 

I was familiar with his kind, as he was with ours. Wandering traders are not common, but it’s a respectable enough job to at least garner interest among village communities. It had been a long while since we had one visit, though, since we are somewhat… not worth the journey. Our population doesn’t have a huge variation of jobs, and most of the dyes the traders sell are worthless to a village with no weavers. 

I had forgotten how strange the wanderers are. I can only imagine how prolonged loneliness would affect a being who has community written into his blood, but he seemed healthy enough. My mind goes to the nitwit, who has been staying by his side for the entirety of the visit so far. Their conversations are… strange. 

He seemed interested when I mentioned my journal, which took me aback. 

“You wish to inform the future generations, yes?” He said, stuffing sea pickles back into his bag. “To communicate to others who will not know who you are.”

This confused me, of course. “Would I be using it for anything else?”

“Oh, no.” He looked me straight in the eye. “It’s just… important. To be specific about these things. Communicating with the future is different than, say, communicating with the adjacent present.”

Although I didn’t completely understand, I hummed in agreement. Really, he and the nitwit were very similar, but, despite how much time I have been spending with him lately, I still sometimes cannot wrap my mind around some of the stranger topics of conversation. I did catch the sun and the stars come up again between them more than once, the trader nodding as the nitwit went on about domes revolving around the self.

It was humorous to see the cartographer be completely dazzled by the wanderer’s potion collection. It wasn’t for sale, of course, but he allowed us to poke and prod the bottles as long as we promised to be extremely careful. 

He assured us with a smile that if we dropped or drank any of them, he had items that would let us suffer a fate far worse than death. Needless to say, we were all very careful. 

“It’s his one defence against monsters during the night,” the nitwit explained, painstakingly and with each word carefully enunciated. 

“I know this.”

“But it’s important enough to be reminded again.”

I couldn’t argue with that. Besides, I had… a more pressing matter on my mind. 

Soon after the wandering trader’s arrival, I saw figures in the woods. 

Grey figures with dark outfits. I couldn’t see them too clearly, since they were behind the treeline in the dark oak forest, but my eyes did not lie. It was a patrol of some sort, holding iron axes and wooden tools with arrows docked. 

I stayed out of sight. Nothing from the woods brings anything safe, especially if I’ve never heard of them before. Besides, their faces… 

I didn’t trust them. Based on the worried glance the wandering trader shot my way when I returned from the edge of the forest, I can assume my hunch is correct. 

They did not come close to the village, though. I am not dumb enough to assume they just didn’t see us, but it is a hope, I suppose. 

There’s nothing I can do about it now. I’ll just have to wait. Until then, we have a guest.

-000-

Week Four.

The wandering trader left halfway into the week, sparing worrying glances towards the dark oak forest as he made his departure. Before he left, though, we had a small celebration. It isn’t every day we have travellers, and we wanted good word of mouth to be spread to others so that we get more visitors. 

We took the day off of work, everyone gathering and eating by the bell. It was nice, sharing something with someone who was not officially a part of our community. We gossiped, ate, and just enjoyed ourselves while the traveller told stories. One particularly stood out to me, since its tone veered away from the comedies he had been telling previously.

“Once,” he began. “There was a god. And he was very good.”

I had never heard of a story with such a beginning, so I paid rapt attention. I nearly ran to my lectern to grab my journal then and there, but something made me sit in place as he continued.

“He lived in the world just as we do, surviving, fighting, and sleeping. He worked alone, but he was happy.”

“He befriended animals of the forest and the jungle, learned the craft of livestock and stone-cutting. He travelled to the depths of the earth and returned to the surface with riches far beyond belief, only to go deeper than before.”

“Fire was his friend, as was the water. He summoned other gods for their bones and souls, created beams of light from their carcasses, and did it all over again.”

“He knew this world inside and out. From the beginning to the end. The end to the beginning. He could not die, and yet he bled. He could move mountains with only a pick axe and a farm.”

“But,” The traveller said. “He turned foul.”

“He knew this world inside and out. From the beginning to the end. The end to the beginning. But also far beyond that. He knew this world to the depths of its core. He grew bored. So he learned to fly.”

“He learned to gather infinite supplies without work. He learned to create monuments in seconds. He learned to create life from nothing. That life was always slightly off, unbeknownst to the god. Cats with kittens that were too perfectly identical. Zombies with no telling marks that suggested a point of infection. Polished skeletons without evidence of their original death. Dogs that were too loyal.”

“As life became easy to replicate, it became easy to destroy.”

The wanderer gained a strange note to his voice I could not identify.

“Fire was his friend, so he used it to ravage the forests. Water was his ally, so he flooded the plains. He summoned rival gods and set them loose in the countryside, killing every living thing in their path.”

“Once, there was a god. He was very good at being one.”

“But to just exist,” he said, eyes growing dark. “He was very lacking.”

We were all silent in awe afterward. I could only shiver, feeling as if the god from the story would descend upon our village any moment. His storytelling ability must have been exceptional, to give me that effect. The nitwit was beside me, practically shaking with excitement. 

After the festivities, the traveller took me aside.

“You saw the pillagers, yes?”

“The what?”

“The pillagers,” he said, somewhat impatiently. “The grey ones. The raiders. You saw them.”

I could only nod. His mask was covering his face, but I could see him frown.

“Be prepared for the future, librarian. Continue writing. Keep your village safe. Keep the green one close.” His eyes glinted. “He reminds me of myself, when I was younger.”

He must have been referring to the nitwit. I nodded again, and he returned it. 

“Remember,” he said. “They cannot open doors.”

Those were the last words he said that were meant for me alone. He took aside the nitwit at some point as well, who stood up taller somewhat afterwards. 

After his departure, the village seemed drab. I could see the others felt it too, in the way their eyes lost the spark they had gained while the trader was present. One of the farmers actually came into the library at some point, asking about books of legends and myths to read in his downtime. I managed to find one sandwiched between a few accounts of desert biomes.

I don’t blame the others for trying to find some escapism after the past week. Our lives now… are dull. Lacking. We are doing the bare minimum of surviving, looking at the same books everyday of every week of every year. That story was the first fresh fiction I’ve heard in almost my entire life. 

I have never believed in gods. Not with the way the world works. But that… made me wish something like that would happen. Not the huge massacre part, of course not. But just, something to stretch the limits of our lives. 

Until then, I’ll just have to keep writing. Exercise a modem of concern for the raiders the trader mentioned. I’ve never heard of such beings before, but I was warned, and so I shall be wary. 

Perhaps the moment I long for will come sooner than expected.


	2. Chapter 2

Week Five.

I’ve been thinking more and more about the missing unemployed as of late, as well as the rest of the village’s reaction to his departure. Or rather, the lack of reaction. No one has spoken about him in quite some time. 

It has never occurred to me how the unemployed ones bode through the day. The one we have now sort of wanders, poking his head into everyone’s workspace to browse or chat. I wonder if he worries about disappearing just as his counterpart, no one acknowledging him in the wake of his leave. I’ve made my position on the thought clear in the past: being forgotten terrifies me. 

I do think about whether or not the others would have a similar lack of emotion to my own death, job or not. I suppose at least the unemployed would be happy – the librarian job position would be vacant. 

I’ve seen more raiders behind the treeline this week, patrolling the perimeter of the village just far enough to not cause a panic, but close enough to be suspicious. I believe I am the only one who has seen them, as no one else has mentioned their presence. Well, others may have seen them, but are staying silent just as I am. 

The wanderer called them “pillagers.” I’d call the mirroring of names ironic if their presence didn’t terrify me so. The axes they carry, while I’ve never gotten a close enough look to confirm, seem well worn. Used to their fullest potential. Sharpened and polished like their pride and joy…

At this rate I’ll scare myself to an early death before they even have the chance to make their move. 

To distract myself, I did dig deep into my collection to see if there was any mention of any god-like figures that could relate to the story the wanderer told before he left. It’s a curious topic, I’ll admit. Again, I’ve never lent myself to believing in gods – if they do exist in this world, we have been untouched. Although, our ancestors seem to have believed otherwise.

I found schematics for mining tunnels and dungeons, all leading to some sort of portal. Of course, we know now that it is connected to the Men of Ender. Nothing magical of any sort, purely technology we are not advanced enough just yet to replicate. Any powerful beings mentioned are just that: powerful beings. No gods.

The books still seem to be stumped on skeletons, however. They have no structural support to keep standing by themselves. The nitwit in his nightly explorations has mentioned their indifference towards our kind, although he did mention to stay away from firefights they have amongst themselves. I asked if the arrow sticking out of his shoulder was related to the discovery, to which he replied, “What arrow?”

They animate just as zombies do, just without aggression. Their skulls are of a different shape than a common villager’s – my theory is that they are just older zombies, shed of their skin and hunger, wise enough to handle a bow and search for shelter in the daylight. They have the same anatomy, more or less. It makes… baseline sense.

I cannot confirm it just yet. Not without performing an autopsy on a number of cadavers, which is impossible when the cadavers are able to walk around after death. There are a few entries that mention the zombies in snowy biomes to be slower and potentially easier to test on, but I digress. 

I have not seen mentions of anything “learning to fly,” nor having the ability to gather infinite materials without work. Hell, even the feats he does before his apparent godhood is never even alluded to. Nothing suggests such a god has ever existed. 

I’m… not entirely sure why I went on this research spree. The trader was a skilled storyteller, and that’s all what the tale was – a story. Meant to send a message about how it’s easy to lose empathy when you have the whole world at your fingertips. 

Perhaps I was grasping onto the dregs of wonder the trader left with us, holding on to that sense of excitement something new brought to our community. With all the talk of death – zombies, skeletons, the raiders… 

I need to get out more.

  
  


-000-

  
  


Week Six.

I am officially not the only one to have seen the pillager patrols. 

It’s comforting, not carrying this concern alone. The cartographer said he did not approach the group he spotted, pale in the face. Good to know that at least someone has a sense of self-preservation. I wonder if the nitwit had had a chance to confront the raiders, would he?

I feigned ignorance when he reported his sightings at the Bell Gathering, stating I would search my collection for any mention of grey villagers with axes or strange bows. I had already researched pillagers extensively, perhaps a day after the wanderer had left with his warning fresh in my mind. I found nothing, which is worrying. 

I imagine if the raiders find any literature about them, they destroy it as to leave future generations with no warning. In the event of an invasion, my journal may as well be burned already.

In the wake of all my concern, it never occurred to me that the others would take the information that we were being stalked by strange groups of beings well. But alas, everything stayed relatively the same. If anything, everyone seems more chipper. I suppose it takes the threat of death for us to be excited about something new happening.

The strangest thing to be taken from this is that iron golems have become a topic of conversation during gossip. Great protectors, sprouting from the earth and never tiring. Gentle giants who patrol and keep us safe. 

It’s sad, really. We talk and talk as if simply speaking about them will make it a truth. 

Otherwise, the week has been… uneventful. There is a new sense of tension among us that litters our conversations, all of us looking nervously towards the treeline. I continue to research, although I am fast approaching the limit of my collection. So much has been lost through the years… 

It seems like such a trivial thing to worry about, but it hurts my core. In a world as barren of intelligent life as the one we reside in, lost knowledge is painful to even think about. 

… 

I think of the wandering trader in these moments. It’s rare that I do not think of him at least once a day, pondering his wisdom and his scope of the world. He is a master of his own future, choosing where to go with endless possibilities at his disposal, collecting trinkets and selling them to get by. His life is so different than ours, but he must have started from similar roots – we are the same species, after all. 

I could never do what he does. The only defence from the night, blending in and hoping no one sees you… Too many things could go wrong. I could lose everything, all the knowledge I gathered on the way from village to village. 

I could die alone and forgotten. It doesn’t seem worth it. 

… 

Writing makes me feel better. It feels silly to admit, but it feels like immortalizing my surroundings. Everything I write – that survives – will live on in other’s memories. The wanderer, the other villagers, even the nitwit. I suppose I just don’t want my fear to happen to them as well. 

I brought up my fears with the nitwit. He’s been staying close as of recently, and he’s actually not a bad conversationalist. When you can get past the oddities of his speech, that is.

“We are unimportant in the scope of the world,” he said, looking at the sky. “There are millions like us everywhere, endlessly spawning in an endless world.”

“You’re right,” I admitted. “But it scares me.”

“Don’t be scared.” He finally made eye contact with me. “Wear it. Like armor. There are millions like you – you are not alone, nor are you drowning in multitudes. You are in good company.”

“And yet, the sky revolves around me.”

His eyes shone. 

“Yes.” He said, looking back up. “Yes it does.”

I looked up as well. Good company indeed.

  
  


-000-

  
  


Week Seven.

I’ve been so focused on the negative aspects of our culture as of late that I’ve neglected writing about the more unique parts of our village. It’s been out of necessity, of course, but it becomes a bit of a drag after a few weeks. It might be a good time to remedy that, now that the amount of raider patrols have slowed down since the cartographer has seen them.

I’m sure there’s a worrying correlation between being publicly spotted and now not being seen, but I am now under the mindset of “whatever happens will happen”, courtesy of the nitwit. It’s comforting, somewhat. It takes the edge off. Besides, going outside more often is probably healthy. 

Plains biomes are always so beautiful. We have the fortune of being settled among sunflower fields, and the color palette of brown on yellow has always been pleasing to me. Part of me wishes we had a shepherd in our village, if only to have access to dyed goods, but I know it is unlikely – sheep herds aren’t common in our area.

Horses roam nearby, though. No one has attempted to tame them – something about an incident with skeletons a long time ago. None of us actually remember the event, but I trust our instincts.

We have no rivers, although there are a few pools of water. I know of a few interesting moments with those – the unemployed falling into one and coming back with his robes soaked, or the incident where we discovered that zombies cannot burn to death when submerged. We have discussed covering them up with roadwork, but it was quickly turned down. They’re relatively harmless, and pose more gains than cons. Water is important, after all.

I briefly stated the layout of the area previously, but getting more specific: We are in a sunflower plains biome surrounded by dark oak forest. Our buildings are located not quite at the edge of the tree line – far enough away to be safe, but close enough to not be in the center of the plains. There is a break in the trees just northward of the clearing that leads to a mountain riddled with cave systems. I believe this is where the nitwit has most of his nightly escapades. 

He has stayed indoors more often, interestingly enough. He has always been

One moment. The bell just

  
  


-000-

  
  


Day One of Raid.

There is a witch outside. It  _ had _ to be a witch.

There are other raiders in her company, of course, but it really had to be a witch outside the library, didn’t it.

If it wasn’t obvious, I was writing when, presumably, one of the farmers rang the bell. My previous thoughts on our local geography don’t seem worth finishing when I can hear  _ witches _ right outside the library. 

Witches are horrible.

Ugh.

Let me rephrase: I do not care for witches. They terrify me almost as much as dying alone, but, then again, they may as well be the same thing. Their technology is impressive – their potion-making is astounding, as is their penchant for being nearly impossible to kill. Rumor has it they gained the understanding of fire when struck by lightning, knowing how to manipulate and gather energy from their surroundings. They don’t need blaze powder to fuel their potions – they just spark a flame.

I’m not sure how much of that is false. I’d garner all of it, but I stay indoors during thunderstorms nevertheless. I figure getting struck by lightning has higher chances of killing you rather than granting you a mystical education. 

That being said, I’m sure they hate us as much as we hate them. I know one of the farmers has been splashed by an instant harming potion more than once when he strayed too close to the mountain caves, and the cartographer turned pale when the cackling started.

He managed to race into the library once the bell sounded, thank goodness. I’m not sure whether to be grateful or infuriated, though – he doesn’t appreciate me writing down events as they happen.

The cartographer, of course, has a history of becoming needlessly hostile when under stress.

“It doesn’t help anyone,” he scathed. “You’re turning into a nitwit, with all the mysticism and theories that you jabber on about. I hear you talking to the other one during the Bell Gatherings.”

It stung to hear, but I refused to respond at first. He didn’t seem content to stay silent, however.

“You’ve changed, ever since the zombie raid.” He shook in the corner, the witches’ cackles becoming ambiance to his rant. “You’re scared. Obsessed with writing everything down – all for what, exactly?” He scoffed. “Informing future generations? Well, the only future generations  _ this _ village is going to see are the descendents of the ones holding the weapons outside, so–”

“I understand,” I hissed through my teeth. “That you’re under pressure at the moment, but that does not mean you can  _ insult– _ ”

“I speak the truth!” He laughed, manic. “We will die here, forgotten forever. Doesn’t that just eat you up inside?”

“Then you might as well hurry the process up then!” I nodded towards the door. “Go on, out you go. I’ll even write down your death, so those future generations can see how much of an utter ditz you are.” I scowled. “Maybe the witches will be satisfied with the sacrifice and leave the rest of us alone. The unemployed will surely enjoy your job more than you ever did.”

Even now he is mocking me from his little corner. Whatever. He ran into  _ my _ library – he gets to deal with the consequences. 

My own personal drama aside, I do worry about the state of the nitwit. He arguably has more experience in situations such as this than the rest of us combined, yes, but he also has the least amount of self-preservation. I suppose I’d be worried about his well-being if he wasn’t in my line of sight at all times, invasion or not. Especially with his track record.

I know I am brash for saying so, but I’d gladly trade the cartographer’s safety for his. Bad or good gossip doesn’t affect him, since he has no want for a job. He sees everyone as… equals. It’s comforting in comparison to the cartographer who has been spreading poor gossip for weeks now. If we were not already on a barter system, prices would be high for me. 

I… suppose I should settle down for a long night. There are no beds in the library, and I don’t think I would be able to sleep if there were.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I'd add some of the general easter eggs I mention through the chapters! If you didn't catch them already at least. I'm a huge villager nerd, so, I wanted to talk about it.
> 
> The sky rotating around an individual is a reference to the sun, moon, and stars rotating around the player's perspective in-game. 
> 
> Villager librarians are neat – I've never seen one naturally spawn, but apparently they take stock of the books in the library during their work times? They just look at the shelf blocks. It's so cool. What are they doing, looking at the same books every day? My answer: RESEARCH.
> 
> The Bell Gathering in-game usually takes place at the end of the day, as does most of the Gossip. Which is a real thing!!! If you hurt a villager they'll spread bad gossip about you and their prices will rise, the opposite if you do good things. Like trading with them or defeating a raid. They also will gossip about iron golems if there are enough villagers in the village. If enough have gossiped about it, then a golem will spawn! Ah, irony.
> 
> The nitwits have a different schedule than normal villagers – they wake up later and go to sleep later, thus the nightly adventures of this one. 
> 
> The wandering trader's story alluded mob eggs, which I thought could be pretty cool in this setting. I can imagine stuff like that being a little too Perfect, perfectly symmetrical faces, a bit too vibrantly colored. 
> 
> Then the witches!!! If a villager gets struck by lightning, he'll turn into one. So weird. 
> 
> Hopefully the next chapters' notes won't be as long, lol. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Day Two of Raid.

During the night, a few zombies joined the opposing force. Worrying as it may be that these pillagers have immunity against zombie aggression, we are still untouchable while inside. The library door has held fast, despite the pounding.

This would have been fine come daytime, but I still hear the occasional groan from a different house. It’s difficult to catch amongst the witches’ chatter, but there are definitely a few undead wandering around. They must have found shelter under the awnings. I can only hope they are of the usual variety of zombie, and none of them are people I know.

We did get a bit of a surprise that morning. Something opened the door and entered, quickly enough to not let anything else in after it. The cartographer dived to the back of the library with a screech before the intruder spoke up.

“It’s me,” the nitwit breathed, winded and a bit banged up. “I tried running.”

_ No kidding _ , I thought after I recovered from shock, looking him up and down. The bottom of his robes had glass embedded in the cloth, and his sleeves were slightly torn. “Are you alright?”

“Is he  _ alright?! _ ” The cartographer scrambled up. “He could have let something else in here, and you’re worried if he’s  _ alright _ ?”

“Nothing came in. It’s fine.” I waved him off. After a whole night of his yammering, I was tired of his comments. I turned back to the nitwit. “No infection?”  _ You won’t turn? _ Went unsaid. His skin had too much of an unhealthy pallor for my liking

He winced. “Not like what you are thinking.”

“What is it, then?”

“Poison.” He lifted his robes and shook them slightly, dislodging glass to the ground with a clinging sound. “Inhaled quite a bit. It will wear off soon.”

He was correct, of course – we’ve all had experiences with splash potions in some way or another. Rather than what their name suggests, the contents of the potions are entirely gas once their containers crack. The gaseous form lessens the effects of the original concoction, but some potion-makers create extremely concentrated forms of the potion in order to heighten the effectiveness of the splash variety. 

It looked like the nitwit got hit with one such potion. I frowned.

I dislike witches.

By the time of writing the potion seems to have worn off – his skin is at a much healthier brown than the greenish tinge it was at before. This hasn’t stopped the cartographer from sitting as far away from him as possible while also keeping his distance from me. It’s slightly humorous to see him scoot away when one of us shifts slightly. 

The nitwit has made things much easier to bear. Plus, he didn’t give me strange looks when I started to write. He appreciated it, even.

“Record,” he nodded. “Inform future generations of this filth.”

The cartographer scoffed loudly. I ignored him, turning to the nitwit fully. “You don’t like this much, I take it?”

“They want to kill us.”

“We will live.” Another scoff from the cartographer. “We  _ will _ ,” I said again, a bit more forcefully.

The nitwit nodded, but the fear didn’t leave his frame. Which, fair. “Fire is their friend.”

I hummed in agreement. “The witches, correct?”

“Destructive, only searching for death. Hell is filled with fire that never dies, fueled by the flesh of the dead. That is what they wish to mimic.”

It took me a moment to decipher the meaning behind his words. Regardless, I never took the nitwit as… religious, in any case. My face must have reflected my thoughts, because he simply gave me a weak smile. “Purely scientific.”

“Right.” I didn’t understand, but the description was quite poetic. I could respect that.

In any case, I haven’t seen any fires as of yet. Only the sounds of witches, zombies, and bows being drawn – not being fired. No… axe sounds. No screams. I have no idea if anyone else is still alive, and I don’t want to risk looking out the window in case I’m seen. 

I did ask the nitwit something, just to be sure.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Some of them can open doors. Some of them cannot. Some of them can fly through walls.”

I wasn’t sure what I expected, but that last comment was not it. “ _ Fly _ through  _ walls _ ?”

“They aren’t here, though.” He paused. “We are lucky. None of the ones that can open doors are here.”

“You should have begun with that!”

“Maybe,” he said, leaning back. “But they’ll be here later.”

The cartographer perked up. “How much later?”

“Just later.”

That caused the cartographer to go sputtering angrily again, but I pondered the nitwit’s warning. 

It is sobering, knowing the end of your life can be summarized as the word “later”. So simple, and yet so accurate. Still, despite the existencial check-ins, I am glad the nitwit is here with us. Gives me one less thing to worry about.

  
  


-000-

  
  


Night Two of Raid.

We… have our first official confirmed fatality. The scream could have been heard through the whole village. I believe it to be one of the farmers – trying to make a run for it, maybe? Such a maneuver would have been difficult to make at night, but it is known that fear can make anyone disregard risk.

It’s a shame, but I expected this to happen at some point. An unexpected and interesting reaction came from the cartographer at the time of the scream, who directed his ire towards the witches outside rather than to the nitwit and I. While it was not thought-through in the slightest, it was incredible to witness. 

“You lot really have nothing better to do than terrorize us!” He screeched at the glass. The nitwit and I shared a glance as it caught the attention of a particular witch who crowded right underneath the window. She wasn’t quite tall enough to see through, but her hat was very much visible. 

“ _ Come out, _ ” came a sing-song croak, pitched unnaturally high. The cartographer scoffed.

“Get a job!” 

We heard broken glass a moment later, all of us leaping back. It took a moment for us to hear a pained groan from outside – the witch had thrown a potion at the window, only to have the contents waft back at her.

The cartographer was breathing heavily, but that slowly morphed into giggles bordering on the hysterical side. He looked at us, wordlessly pointing at the window through his laughter. 

I haven’t heard the telltale sounds of witches since. I know they’re still out there, and a part of me worries that our meddling has made them switch targets to the others, but the idea that we were able to embarrass them somewhat takes a weight off my shoulders I didn’t know was there.

  
  


-000-

  
  


Day Three of Raid.

The sun rose to burn the undead once again. It has always filled me with dread, hearing their slow demise right outside my door. Now it has comforting connotations – less chances of death in case the door  _ does _ open.

I’ve seen glimpses of pillagers consorting with the witches through the window. Not quite… talking, not like I’ve heard them converse with their own kind. They just… glare? And grunt, before continuing their patrol around the village. It makes me wonder if their alliance is as rocksteady as it first appeared.

The pillagers’ voices are quite similar to our own, curiously. Perhaps a bit deeper and rougher, nasally even, with a slightly different dialect I’d probably say has taiga-village origins. Given their visual similarities to us, it’s not a far reach to assume they were their own village at first. How they got to such a state as this – grey skin, an alliance with the undead and magic-inclined, a hatred of their neighbors – escapes me. 

We’ve all gotten skittish, and the lack of sleep is starting to wear us down – the cartographer’s boost of ego from the night before seems to have faded with his energy, and the nitwit flinches every so often, looking at the roof in fear. I can only imagine what is going through his mind, with the sights he has seen late at night. 

I’m sure there is a reason why the tradition of keeping a village’s population strongly controlled by the amount of beds present has kept through the ages.

My strength is being used towards writing these logs. While it frightens me to admit, I don’t expect to live for much longer. One of us will open the door in a mad dash to escape, and let the raiders in. I couldn’t even tell you if it will be me or not. I expect it to

Something is happening.

There was a horn sounding outside. None of us can see anything through the windows. As in, the witches and raiders are gone. We can still _ hear _ them, but

They’re fighting something. Did someone escape? No, because something is actually  _ hurting _ them, and no villager would have the strength to do that. 

The only thing that comes to mind are Golems. Which is ridiculous. Golems don’t exist. 

But.

I just shared this with the others, who then looked at me with reasonable doubt, but what else could it be? Pillagers have ties with monsters, so whatever is attacking them must be against them, right? Especially if it’s a force powerful enough for them to warrant the use of a war cry, calling all their troops to where the battle is strongest. At least, that’s the running theory for the horn.

The nitwit has gotten very pale. I suspect he knows what is going on. I’d ask him, but I don’t want him to faint. Or panic. 

I’m not sure if

Another horn, from a different direction. I heard the bell ring. What is going on?

Another horn. 

…

…

It stopped. 

I don’t hear anything outside. No raiders, no heavy footsteps that suggest an Iron Golem is our savior, nothing. 

The Nitwit is going outside.

  
  


-000-

  
  


Day One of Study

I am… not sure how to describe the events of yesterday. I still feel I am in a state of shock, actually. 

I shall explain the events of the past few entries. Hopefully it will clear up any information that was muddled in the wake of a fear driven, sleep deprived first-hand account.

The pillager raid lasted three days, two nights. They occupied the streets while the cartographer and I took shelter in the library, two farmers found solace together in one of the two story houses, while the last farmer and the unemployed were alone in their own, smaller buildings. The nitwit eventually joined us, yet he refuses to tell me where he was beforehand. I suspect he was in one of the houses on the outskirts of the village, since it’s far enough to reasonably get winded and caught by a witch in the time it takes to run to the library.

The lone farmer was the death we heard the second night. No one will know what his final thoughts were, what drove him out of safety. It saddens me, knowing that I lived in the same vicinity as him and yet know nothing but his profession. 

The unemployed has his job now, though. I suppose I should start calling him something else, since the title is outdated. The Successor, perhaps? That may be a bit dramatic. I digress.

Things stayed relatively the same for the three days, barring the unique situation we had with the witch poisoning herself in her attempt to attack the cartographer. On the third day, three horns sounded. I originally took them as calls for reinforcements. I was half correct.

Pillager raids come in waves, calling for reinforcements when absolutely everyone on the pillager side is decimated (This has interesting implications of raider culture and pride, now that I think about it). The waves get more intense as they go, bringing the nitwit’s previously mentioned “ones who can go through walls”. We apparently got lucky with the initial raid group – the ones with crossbows cannot open doors due to the risk of targets escaping along with the weapon disadvantage at close range. Other classes of pillagers with more… suitable weaponry can enter.

That is the running theory, however. I’ve had time to think this through. How, with all the distractions lately, I have no idea… 

Us residents of the library were also far away enough from the ensuing battle to not have seen the following raid groups. Gossip has lead me to believe that one of the farmers came face to face with one of the axe wielders before our… protector stepped in. Our savior was not an Iron Golem, and I feel silly just reading my panicked theorizing from the day before. No single iron golem, mythical or not, could take four waves of a raid and survive. 

Our savior was… something different. The body of a zombie, but healthier? It was wearing glistening armor, and pulling a donkey. Apparently it just tied the animal to one of the torch-posts before taking out the raiders one by one. When the nitwit left the library to see what was going on, we came face to face with it. We were all shocked. I personally thought I was hallucinating from lack of sleep. The cartographer thought he had seen a god. 

The other villagers had caught on far before the three of us did, lighting fireworks we kept stockpiled for other uses. It finally settled in that we  _ survived _ , and we all felt relieved. We of course had to pay our respects. This being saved us, after all. It’s all a haze to me, after three days of fear, but I do remember throwing a book at its feet before heading to a bed and promptly passing out.

It stayed in the village. The others were thrilled, but I had a feeling of heavy skepticism weighing on my mind.  _ Especially _ with the way the nitwit was looking at it like some sort of silverfish.

“You don’t recognize it?” He said to me, when I asked what the disgust was all about.

“I wouldn’t be asking if I did,” I replied.

He huffed, turning away, and that was the end of that.

The being cannot speak, we quickly found out, but it didn’t need to. Not when it reached into its donkey’s luggage and pulled out two handfuls of emeralds. You don’t need a spoken language for that. Not like it had to pay anything during its stay – discounts were high, and a few farmers just threw their wares at it. If you didn’t discount, you were a menace.

So we have a ward in our village once again for the time being. It took up residence in one of the houses with a fenced yard. It’s just been going around, chopping trees in the forest and leaving for hours at a time. I have mixed feelings about this. I only hope it is because of the lack of information on our new visitor and not uneasiness spurred on by the nitwit’s reaction. Only time will tell, I suppose.

I only hope it doesn’t leave too soon before I have a good read on it. I’m changing my weekly entries to daily, if only to get the most information possible before it inevitably moves on. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started a new server with my friends recently and we started a village and you'll NEVER guess who the most problematic boy is. It's the librarian. He just won't go to sleep.
> 
> References:
> 
> Splash potions are so wild, but I think gas forms make a lot more sense than if their contents were liquid, regardless of the name. Everything about potions in this chapter is more or less factual though. Especially splash potions being less effective.
> 
> Hell is filled with fire that never dies, fueled by the flesh of the dead!!! I'm pretty sure netherrack is just dried flesh, so.
> 
> Illagers can open doors, but the crossbow pillagers cannot. Almost got that mixed up a few times lol.
> 
> Fun fact! Witches aren't considered pillagers despite spawning with the initial raids because they have a chance of attacking a pillager if hit! Kind of like how skeletons shoot each other if they got shot at by another on accident. Pillagers don't do that to themselves, so by definition witches are not raiders. So, shaky alliance it is.
> 
> And the player is introduced. I'll get to their stuff later.
> 
> Thanks for reading!!!!


End file.
